


Triumph Day

by rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hunger Games, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, No Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28043559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: "She’s tearing at the skin around her cuticles when the lock clicks on her door. From the outside. Only her escort and clients have keys. She’s a bird in a cage here, trapped.  The client enters the room at the exact moment that a bright orange firework detonates right outside the window. She flinches and scrambles away from the pane, but at least now she might be able to pass off her terror as fear of the loud noises, rather than fear of giving her virginity to a total stranger."
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 57





	Triumph Day

**Author's Note:**

> Normally, I would put a short story like this in my collection "making a blank page bloom" but it's more a one-shot than a drabble, and I felt like it (and truly, probably a few other stories in that collection) warranted its own file, so here it is! Perhaps I will start doing this with some of the other short stories ... we shall see. 
> 
> Written for a tumblr prompt: prostitute/client AU ~ relevant warnings apply, but there's no sex.

They don’t celebrate Triumph Day in the districts. Why would they? _Celebrate the day of their own subjugation under the thumb of the Capitol?_ Never. At home, mother and Prim will be huddled in their dilapidated shack, while outside the wide, wide penthouse window, fireworks explode in showers of every color imaginable. The city sparkles. It reminds her of glass shards catching the hot sunlight of 12, the day after the war, five years ago. Barely anything was left but shards. Shards of steel, and plastic, and bone. Shards of her father. 

_If he could see her now —_

She stares at her own faint reflection in the window and is glad he can’t see. Her hair is curled into soft waves that tumble down bare shoulders. Her body, already tiny, is squeezed into a creamy lace gown (“lingerie,” her escort had called it) that pinches and pads and is designed to make her bony frame look plush. Why the agency bothers, she doesn’t know. It isn’t as if her client will be unaware that she’s a district girl. This is a standard practice, a way for the desperate districts to earn favor with their oppressors and send some money back home for their trouble. 

There’s fancy alcohol on the glossy black table. Maybe she should have some, calm herself down. She can almost hear her escort’s voice lecturing her about how knocking knees and trembling hands are not desirable — and certainly not worthy of a tip. She hadn’t mentioned to the woman that she’d never done this before. Had lied and said she’d had some experience with her boyfriend, Gale. Gale isn’t her boyfriend. He’s almost her cousin. She didn’t tell him where she was going, when her approval papers came through. She’d simply boarded the early train wearing her mother’s blue dress, bearing a single bag and the official occupation of “sex worker,” stamped in red on her identification card. 

She’s tearing at the skin around her cuticles when the lock clicks on her door. From the outside. Only her escort and clients have keys. She’s a bird in a cage here, trapped. The client enters the room at the exact moment that a bright orange firework detonates right outside the window. She flinches and scrambles away from the pane, but at least now she might be able to pass off her terror as fear of the loud noises, rather than fear of giving her virginity to a total stranger. 

A total stranger who has backed against the door with his palms flat on the white wood, eyes screwed shut as the blast fades out. In the flashing light, she sizes him up. He’s young—can’t be any older than she is—with blond curls that skate over his forehead. He’s strongly built, like a miner back home. But for his strength, she’s reminded of a cornered animal when he opens his eyes at last. Pale blue irises, pupils contracted to points. 

“A — are you okay, sir?” she asks, taking a step toward him almost involuntarily. 

“Fine,” he grunts, standing up straighter and straightening his rumpled shirt. “Just — I’m fine.” He sits heavily on the mattress. She takes a half step back from the bed as he does so. He wipes his face with a hand. “Sorry. I hate Triumph Day.” 

“What?” she blurts before she can stop herself. “Why?” _Don’t all Capitolites look forward to this day, the parties and decadence?_

Her client gives a soft, humorless laugh. “The noises.” He raps a fist against his left leg, and she hears a strange, hard sound. “Was a soldier,” he says with a shrug. 

A soldier. She takes another half step back. A Capitol soldier—one of the men who helped to kill and enslave so many—bought her for the night. Revulsion catches in her throat, but as another firework makes him grip the bedclothes, she feels a faint sting of sympathy. 

_Bombs._

She must be a distraction from them — and she knows she’s doing an awful job, just standing here, picking at her hands. Her escort would be squawking and berating her about making her client comfortable. 

“Uh — can I get you a drink, sir?” she says lamely. 

“Oh,” the man says, almost as lamely. “No. I don’t. Drink, I mean. But thank you — uh.” He meets her eyes at last. “I didn’t get your name?” 

“Evergreen,” she says. “My name is Evergreen.” 

It isn’t. That’s neither her first name nor her last name. But she isn’t interested in hearing anyone grunt her real name over her in the dark. She’ll leave both at home. 

“Evergreen,” he repeats. “That’s pretty. You’re from Twelve, yes?” 

She nods. 

“I’m Peeta.” He holds out his hand. She hesitates, then takes it, half expecting him to use this as an excuse to pull her into his lap, but he doesn’t. He just shakes it. “Nice to meet you, Evergreen.” 

_What kind of game is he playing?_ This isn’t how any of this is meant to go. If this is some kind of test of her seductive abilities … well, she can feel her chances at a tip dwindling by the second. She needs to make a move. She lets go of his hand and brings her own up to slide the thin lace straps of her lingerie down, causing the slippery silk neckline to reveal the tops of her breasts. 

“Wait, wait. Stop.” The man—Peeta—gets to his feet. His hands steady hers atop the front of her gown, holding it in place to cover her. “I — I don’t want that.”

Her nerves, already boiling at the surface, simmer over into something like anger. “Don’t want — ? What did you buy me for then?” Tears spring, hot and angry, into her eyes. “Can we just get this over with? I’m not going to be any good at it, but I’ll do whatever you like.” Forget a tip. She’s going to get fired for a comment like that. The tears start to run down her face. 

Another firework explodes outside, and she winces, but he doesn’t. He’s focused on her, brow creasing in concern. Their hands are still pressed together, holding her gown up. 

“I don’t — did Effie not? — here.” He lifts one strap back onto her shoulder, then the other. She’s much smaller than he is; he could so easily grab her and do whatever he wanted with her, but his fingers are gentle and warm as they linger on her shoulders. “Come sit, please, Evergreen. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.” 

She frowns, but she does as he asks, perching on the very edge of the mattress next to him. 

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” he says. “I don’t mean to offend you. You’re very beautiful, but — ” He sighs. “Effie—your escort—she’s a friend of mine. Kind of like an aunt. I asked her if she could find me some company. I didn’t think she wouldn’t tell you … probably I should have assumed … I just don’t want to be alone tonight is all.” 

Her frown deepens. “Why?” 

He inclines his head towards the window. “It’s like I said. Noises.”

“But why do you care?” she says. “You won. You’re one of them.” _Shit._ Her knees implore her to spring from the bed and make a break for it. She’s in no position to lecture. He’s rich and powerful (at least more rich and powerful than anyone back home) and here she is insulting him. But to her shock, Peeta’s shoulders slump dejectedly. 

“I know I am,” he says. “I wish I wasn’t.” 

Another firework. They both jump. 

“Tell you what,” Peeta says, “I’ll go. Keep the room. My treat.” He stands. “It’s the least I can do, after …” He runs his hand through his hair, looking pale and lost. “I’m so sorry, Evergreen. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

He fidgets with the silver watch on his wrist for a second. “Uh — have a good — yeah.” He clears his throat and turns to leave. 

“Wait.” She plucks awkwardly the creamy silk draped over her legs. “W — why do you wish you weren’t one of them?” 

His jaw clenches and unclenches. “I was … stationed in Eight. Near the end.” 

It’s like a punch to the gut. Everyone knows what the Capitol did to 8. Forced the population to take shelter in hospitals, scarred by acid burns from a chemical barrage. Then, when all hope seemed lost, they dropped a flight of parachutes, a sign of peace. Even the soldiers stationed in 8 thought it was real aid, laid down their weapons, and even helped some of the patients and doctors out to catch the gifts. 

Except they weren’t gifts. 

“The war was over,” Peeta says, low and tight. “Those people were innocent. Helpless. Children and grandparents and … and I was stupid enough to think we’d be decent … ” He shudders, then gives her a weak, wry smile. “You don’t want to hear this,” he says, and there’s no self-pity in it. 

“Is that how you lost your leg? Trying to help people?” 

“By some lousy definition of help, yes.” 

She swallows, thinking of her father, running back into the conflagration that was the Seam, trying to free people from their tinderbox homes, until he too was consumed. “You — you don’t need to leave,” she says, barely audible over another sweat-inducing boom. “You can stay. I — I can’t stand it either.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yeah. It’s a bad night to be alone.” 

He slowly, almost cautiously, returns to her side. 

“You don’t want to sleep with me?” she confirms. 

He shakes his head. “And I’m guessing the feeling is mutual.” 

She nods. “I’ve never done this.” 

His expression softens, as does his voice. “Never? What are you doing here, Evergreen?”

She raises a brow. “My family needs the money,” she says shortly, but as soon as she’s said it, she deflates. 

“I’ll pay you,” he promises. “I’ll pay you every — ” 

But he’s cut off by her scream as a purple detonation rattles the room, making the chandelier jangle. She slides onto her knees on the carpet to steady herself. 

“Hey.” Peeta gets down on the floor beside her. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” she hisses through gritted teeth. 

“No,” he agrees. “You’re right. It’s not. Can — do you mind if I touch you?” Several explosions pop and spark in rapid succession. Like gunfire. She whimpers. He doesn’t wait for her answer before his arms come around her, and she finds herself being picked up and laid on the bed, cradled against his chest. 

“Breathe,” he says. “Breathe with me, okay? One breath in. One breath out.”

She follows his instructions. One breath in, one breath out. She presses her face into his nice shirt, because it’s safer in the shirt, smelling of fancy soap and something that might be cinnamon. His cheek rests against her hair and his arms clutch her tightly, almost to the point of pain, but she isn’t about to tell him to let go. She holds him in an equal vice grip, desperate for comfort and human contact. 

It might be moments, or it might be hours, or it might be years before the explosions fade out into the sounds of people shouting and pumping music. 

“Evergreen?” Peeta murmurs in her ringing ear. “I think — I think it’s over.” 

_No it’s not,_ she wants to protest. _It won’t ever be over._ But she cautiously opens her eyes again and meets his. They’re glassy and bloodshot, but they search her face with worry, and she feels her heart twist with gratitude. 

“Katniss,” she sniffles. 

“Huh?”

“My name’s not Evergreen. It’s Katniss.” 

“Katniss,” he says. She doesn’t mind hearing it from him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me with that.”

“Thank you,” she says hoarsely. “For trying. In — in Eight.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says. “You shouldn’t thank me. It’s because of me you’re in this situation at all.” 

She shivers, the flimsy material of her gown feeling heavy. She’d forgotten her … situation. “I — I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, whispers. “We won’t.” They go silent for a while. His thumb brushes her cheek. “Can you sleep?” 

“I think so.” She’s exhausted. Worn out from fear and crying. But she does think she could sleep, held by this soldier who only wanted her company tonight. He’s safe. He’s gentle. He understands, somewhat. 

“Good. That’s good. Should I go?” 

“No.” Her fingers fist in his shirt and she finds herself tucking her head under his chin. “Stay. If you want. I think it helps to have someone here.” 

“Okay.” She doesn’t miss the note of absolute relief in his voice. “Thank you, Katniss. I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, they spend the night holding each other and they wake feeling much more at peace than either have felt in a while. You know that thing where they melt into each other and the tension eases from their bodies? That thing. The next day they have breakfast and later that day Peeta goes to Effie and says he’d like Katniss to come work for him instead. Katniss gets her ID card changed to “personal cook” or something like that … and a love story ensues, but I’ll let you imagine that. *kisses*


End file.
